


That Love That's Perfectly Unsad

by LordJixis



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempt at Humor, Forced Prostitution, Jaskier attaches himself to Geralt just like always but now it's a/b/o, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, No non-con between Jaskier/Geralt, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, There's no non-con onscreen, This is more funny/lighthearted than you may think from the tags, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, only threats and discussion of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJixis/pseuds/LordJixis
Summary: Jaskier knows his life will never be a fairy-tale. He's no sweet, charming omega, and a brave alpha knight isn't going to swoop him up and give him an existence filled with wine and roses.But, he thinks, staring at the witcher above him, he might have this: a life of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. He doesn't particularly care if he has to be a whore to get it.Like most things he wants, he grabs it with both hands and refuses to let go.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 165
Kudos: 800





	1. You Just Need a Better Life Than This

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TAGS
> 
> Rape/noncon is mentioned, like, a lot
> 
> Sex work is mentioned
> 
> There won't be any noncon between Jaskier and Geralt, they are sweet boys even if Geralt hasn't gotten the memo quite yet

When Geralt comes to collect his payment, dripping graveir blood and none-too-happy that it wasn’t an ordinary ghoul as the townspeople had said (not that he could reasonably fault them - few people could accurately tell the difference from a safe distance, fewer still in the backwater towns such as this) and a shivering, tied up boy is dropped at his feet instead of coin, he is - well, he certainly isn’t pleased. 

“What,” he growls at the cowering mayor. 

“We - we had trouble, with t-the coin,” he stutters out. Geralt gives him a very unimpressed look. “Once we got it all t-together, well, um, the village drunk - he. Well. He took off with it.” Geralt tries, with effort, to look even less impressed. “It’s our fault, Master Witcher! No one ever should’ve told him where it was kept! We’re so sorry, but we barely have anything else to give.”

Geralt pointedly eyes the tied up boy - man, actually, though scrawny and slim - at his feet. He’s managed to wiggle up into a sitting position, and is squinting thoughtfully at him, which is - well, rather admirable, even if fear is rolling off him in waves. 

Fear and…

“He’s the drunkard’s son - left him behind to fend for himself!”

“So instead of coin, you’re trying to give me an extra mouth to feed.”

“You don’t understand! He’s a-”

“Omega,” the boy - man, says. 

Geralt considers him. There’s no tremble in his voice, though his hands are clenched tight behind him. 

“I’m an omega,” he repeats, almost a challenge. 

“Hmm,” he grunts at him. Then, turning back to the alderman, “What will happen to him if I leave him?”

“They’ll whore me out to everyone who can pay, like my dad’s been doing since I presented.” The alderman splutters, but the truth of it is in his guilt. 

“Hm. Are you saying this because you’d prefer a life as a witcher’s whore?” He doesn’t try, exactly, to make his voice foreboding, mostly because he doesn’t need to. 

“Not just any witcher,” he says, grinning. “Geralt of Rivia himself.”

The alderman’s eyes go wider than he’d thought human eyes capable of. Hm. “The - the Butcher of Blaviken? I-I’m so sorry, sir, I had no idea, I’m sure we can find an alternate means of payment, I never meant to insult you-”

“Stop,” Geralt says, and he does. Crouching so they’re eye-level, he stares into bright blue eyes as he speaks, “Yes or no: do you want to leave this place? To become nothing more than the whore of a witcher?”

“Yes,” he says, steady as anything. Well. At least he had the guts to stand up for himself, he might actually do well if he was somewhere that allowed him to grow. 

He stands. “I’ll take him.”

“Oh, thank you, thank-”

“And a room for the night.”

There’s more wide-eyes, then some blinking, then: “Yes, yes, of course, the poor couple down the way, they strayed too far - well, I guess we don’t have that problem anymore, thanks to you, but their cottage should be furnished and empty, it has a bright yellow door, impossible to miss!”

“Hm,” Geralt nods at him, then grabs the shoulder of the tied man, yanking him up. He’s only a bit unsteady, and flinches less than the alderman when Geralt draws his dagger. 

With a swift swipe, his hands are unbound, though the alderman cowers as if he’s going to gut him right then and there. He walks away without a glance back, the soft footsteps of the now untied man following just behind him. 

The door is indeed yellow, and quite cheerful. He spares a thought for the couple that lived here, and hopes they are in a better place. 

It opens easily, and the inside is sparse but cozy. One of them must’ve sewed, if the patchwork rugs thrown about were anything to go by, and the little figurines scattered about spoke to a hobby of carving. 

It’s almost too much humanity to bear. If only he’d gotten here earlier…

He glances at the man by his side. He’d been silent on the walk, and silent he is still, looking up at Geralt from under his lashes. 

There’s a great sigh, dramatic in the extreme, and then he’s stripping. “Well, witcher, no point in delaying - where do you want me.”

Geralt blinks. It’s not often that he’s dumbfounded, these days, but every now and then the world surprises him. 

“Put your clothes back on,” he states, managing to sound stern while still rather confused. 

The other man arches an eyebrow. “Is this a kink? Do you want to undress me yourself?”

“No,” he says, “I want you to be wearing clothes.”

He’s blinked back at for his efforts. “You are aware the best parts come with the clothes off, yes? Though I suppose I’m not adverse to a little foreplay.”

Forepl- fuck, he had said something about him being a whore. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Oh,” and now he sounds mocking, of all things, though he’s putting his clothes back on, so at least something is going right. “Are you going to _make love to me_?”

“Fuck no,” he spits. 

They stare at each other for a minute. “Pain kink then? I’ve dealt with that before, though I’ll have you know my voice gets scratchy after a couple days.”

_A couple days?_

Geralt goes ahead and files that away for later. Preferably much later. Honestly, that’s the sort of thing he should file away until he’s ready to go on a rampage, which almost never happens these days. 

“No kinks. I just want to sleep.”

“Sooo I should… like, suck-”

“Also sleep. We leave early tomorrow. I’ll drop you off in the first town you can find work in.”

The man blinks at him, finally looking like he’s the dumbfounded one in this conversation. Good. 

“You’re just going to leave me somewhere?” he squeaks, the self-assured facade fading fast. “You can’t.”

“A witcher’s life is no place for an omega.”

He huffs. “This shitty town is no place for an omega!”

“That’s why I’m taking you somewhere else.”

“And you think that will be better, do you?” Geralt stays silent. It was probably a rhetorical question anyway. 

A huff from the man proves him wrong. “Do you know how many towns I’ve ‘escaped’ to? Do you know what they do when a pretty little omega wanders in? They think ‘oh, his keeper will be by soon, let's get the most out of him until they show up then hand him back for a fee.’ And you know what’s gonna happen when no one shows up? I’m going to be some other town’s whore, and the cycle is never going to end.”

“Then we’ll find a noble in want of-”

“Oh, so I can be chained to a bed day-in day-out, my only purpose as a cockwarmer for someone with a stick so far up their ass they have to give others the same treatment?"

“They aren’t all like-”

“And I suppose you know, big ol’ scary alpha witcher, I’m _sure_ you know all about how nobles treat omegas. We’re property, you oaf, not people.”

“Why would you agree to go with me then?”

He finally looks away, mutters something that would be too-quiet for anyone without enhanced senses, “With a witcher, I can at least see the world while getting my organs rearranged.”

Geralt blinks. “You want to see the world?”

His head snaps up; the surprised expression melts into a self-deprecating smirk. “Yeah, I know, right? The wittle omega-wega wants to see the world, oh isn’t that just darling? That he thinks he can be more than a little cocksucking slut?”

This is - too much. 

“There’s got to be something for you in the big cities.”

He snorts. “Yeah, whorehouses: better conditions, I’ll give you that, but same schtick.”

“You don’t want to come with me. The Path is hard.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s _so_ much harder than getting fucked in the ass multiple times a day. Here, let’s switch lives, see who has a better time of it.”

There’s not many more arguments Geralt can think of, but he’s sure he’ll find some. Tomorrow. Right now he’s disgusting and dripping blood and who-knows-what, and exhausted on top of it, so - no arguing with rather convincing, foul-mouthed omegas right now. 

“You can take the bed,” he says, headed to the couch. 

“Uh, excuse me?”

Whatever it is, he is so not down, but he turns his head ever so slightly anyway. 

“You’re going to bed like that?”

Looking down, there is a steady drip of blackish blood coming off his fingers and pooling on the floor, and his hair hangs in a stringy curtain around him, but he’s gone to bed in worse states, so: “Yes.”

“No,” the omega says, “you’re not.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You are not ruining a perfectly good couch with whatever foulness is dripping off of you right now. Nope. Not a chance. You are going to sit right there while I prepare a bath for you, then you are going to get that gunk off, and _then_ you are going to sleep.”

“Who are you to order me around?” he growls, in his growliest voice. It’s mighty growly, if he does say so himself. 

“The omega you’ve made your charge,” he says, as though they hadn’t just had a full argument about the when’s and where’s of how Geralt is going to ditch him. 

“You’re not my,” the door swings shut behind the omega, who’s whistling a cheery tune and has a bucket in his hand, clearly looking for a well. Geralt, through no fault of his own, does as the omega said and sits on the floor. “Fuck,” he tells it, with feeling.

* * *

Geralt looks on in amusement as the man attempts to figure out how flint and steel works, before taking pity and casting Igni on the firepit. He jumps back squawking, which is even more amusing than the whole flint-and-steel debacle, though not amusing enough he even considers the idea of keeping him. 

“Oh, so is that one of your witcher-y skills? The skill to terrify poor ba- omegas the Continent over?”

Geralt, who prides himself on never missing anything, catches the slip of the tongue. He absolutely refuses to comment, though: there is truly no reason to learn anything more about the man in front of him, because everything he has learned thus far has been terrible. 

“No. It’s called lighting fires.”

“And you couldn’t have done that five minutes ago?”

“I was seeing how useful you could be.”

More squawking. “I’ll have you know I am plenty useful. The useful-est! Hell, I’ve already convinced you to wash all that gunk off before sleeping, so you don’t wake up crusty and smelling even _worse_ \- which I wouldn’t believe possible, but I hadn’t known things could smell _that_ bad either, so I suppose anything is possible.” 

“Hm.”

He then goes about heating up water and filling the bath. It’s… Geralt isn’t going to say it’s nice. Down that path is danger, and not the kind he’s equipped to deal with. But it’s… different. Having someone do that for him, while he can just sit here and meditate. 

“There we are!” comes a proud voice, and Geralt opens his eyes to see the bath full, and steaming. “Do you need help out of all,” there’s a vague wave at him, “that?”

“No.” What, did he think that Geralt just never took off his armor unless there was someone to help him? That would be preposterous. 

He starts the slow process, watching as the man flits around, peeking into drawers and cabinets. “What are you looking for?” he asks, eventually, curiosity having got the better of him. 

He turns, and for the first time, looks a little sheepish. “Uh, a rag. Preferably before you get in and get it gunky.”

Geralt regards him. “You can bathe first.”

There’s a shrill laugh, then he’s saying, rather fast, “No, no, it’s really not a problem, just, you see, some people wanted a turn with me before I was, um, sent away, so I’m really actually quite clean except - well, I’m sure you don’t want to be bathing in other peoples, um, fluids, that is-”

“Just get in the bath,” he says, and is very careful not to sound angry. 

He gets a wide-eyed look for his troubles. 

“You’re sore, yes?”

A slow nod. Internally he sighs, and pointedly does not debate the merits of finding whoever thinks raping some defenseless omega is okay and gutting them. He’s rather afraid the pros would outweigh the cons, and he doesn’t kill humans, even the monstrous ones. 

“Get in the bath. It will help. Just be quick.”

He closes his eyes then, and doesn’t open them through the sounds of the man undressing and sinking into the tub. Shuts them even tighter at the low moan he lets out, so quiet it must’ve been involuntary. 

“So, uh,” he hears. After a moment, he opens his eyes, and sees that the man only has his nose and eyes above water, tendrils of his hair floating around his head. He shoves himself up a little to speak, “I don’t suppose you’d like my name? If we’re going to be traveling together, it’d be nice if you called me something other than ‘the whore’ or ‘the omega’. Or, uh, any of the other random abuse people go for.”

“We’re not going to be traveling together.” His eyes slide shut again. 

“That’s what you keep saying.”

Geralt doesn’t even hum in response. 

“Well, it’s… it’s Jaskier.” He’s not quite lying, but it’s not the whole truth either. Geralt cracks an eyelid at him, but doesn’t comment. 

He gets out of the tub remarkably quick, and soon, he’s saying, “It’s, uh, your turn.”

The tub is blissfully warm still, and he sinks down into it. When he blinks his eyes open, Jaskier is in the dirty chemise and breeches that he’d been in earlier, which isn’t exactly necessary, considering the circumstances - and it definitely doesn’t do much for the ‘not a whore’ aesthetic he’s fairly certain the man is going for. 

“You can raid the dresser, you know,” he informs the man, who jumps a bit. 

“Uh, what?”

“Whoever lived here isn’t going to be getting much use out of those clothes, so you might as well.”

His eyes go wide, like a kid told to pick whatever they wanted at the toy stall, and he turns to start digging through all the drawers in the room. He’s methodical about it, clean and respectful, and Geralt lets his eyes slide shut again. 

When his hair has been scrubbed and his muscles are loose, he exits the bathwater, standing for a moment as rivulets run down him. A muffled squeak draws him back to present, a present in which Jaskier is very pointedly looking away. 

“Relax, I’ve already told you I have no desire to fuck you.”

“Er, yeah. Thank you. For that.”

Geralt snorts. Humans. 

Jaskier tentatively hands him a rag, still looking away, and he wipes himself down as best he can. After that, it’s a few simple strides to the couch, where he collapses and turns over with his remaining energy. 

“Do you want a blanket?” asks Jaskier’s tentative voice from behind him. 

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

There’s a huff, but a moment later one of the patchwork quilts is draped over him. It’s… actually sort of cozy. He tugs it up a little higher and falls into blissful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Slams hands on table*
> 
> GIVE ME OMEGA JASKIER WHO HAS A BAD PAST AND IS STILL A LITTLE SHIT
> 
> fuck, too specific? Okay, I will WRITE IT MYSELF
> 
> (absolutely not trying to downplay trauma, Jaskier just really strikes me as the dude who hides all the shit behind a very cheery/cheeky persona till it breaks. Our boy got PROBLEMS and I will be doing my best to be sensitive with the topics I'm writing about.)
> 
> Also Geralt is fucking hilarious to himself in his own head, and you can't take that from me. A shitless death? My boy you are gold
> 
> (I never read the books I'm so sorry)
> 
> The title is a bastardization of a line in 'heat waves' by Glass Animals,  
> "I just wish that I could give you that  
> That look that's perfectly unsad"  
> the video of which made me cry conflicted tears and I very much recommend


	2. I Can't Hide You From Life's Horrors

He wakes up to rummaging and the first filtered light of day. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he locates the source of the noise, though he knows who it is before he sees them.

Jaskier has scavenged a bag and appears to be shoving… things in it. Random stuff, as far as he can tell, but it’s not as if he knows what an omega needs, so he leaves him to it as he dresses. 

Once he’s in full - clean, he’ll have to… thankfully grunt at Jaskier for that, probably - armor, he turns to the waiting man. He receives a bright grin in return, and an offering of a strip of dried meat that has apparently been pilfered from the house. 

Far too early for that. 

He walks outside without further acknowledgement. 

Roach eyes Jaskier disapprovingly - she’s a good girl, like that. Good judge of character (and by that he means she hates everyone but him).

He unties her and swings himself on, then takes a steadying breath (and admonishes himself for needing a steadying breath) before looking at Jaskier. 

Who grins up at him again. 

“So where are we off to, o’ big scary witcher?”

“There’s a town a day's walk to the west. You should be able to find work there.”

“Oh, you mean Sypisko?”

Geralt grunts, directing Roach off at a leisurely stroll, slow enough a child could keep up. 

“Yes, I have some truly fond memories there. I believe they fed me half a rotten apple in the three days before my dear father came to claim me.”

He glances down at the carefully happy mask Jaskier is wearing and sighs, turning Roach. “Fine. Two days to the south, Mieci.”

“Ah, yes, the town where I learned exactly how much screaming will turn my voice hoarse.”

There’s still no hint of a lie in the air. 

Geralt allows himself a break in composure to pinch the bridge of his nose, stilling Roach for a long moment. There’s a dearth of towns in this area, but he still grumbles out, “Padki?” 

“They have a lovely pole in the middle of town I spent a few freezing nights tied to. Can’t complain, the food thrown at me was only slightly spoiled.”

Witchers aren’t supposed to get headaches, but there’s a suspicious tension building behind his eyes. “Have you been to every single town around here?”

“Every one that’s less than five days on foot!” he replies brightly. “That’s about where I collapse.”

“How the hell did you escape so much?”

His mask, somehow, gets even more brittle. “Didn’t you hear? My dad’s a drunkard. Wasn’t hard to slip out when he was shit-faced every night.”

“And every single town treated you like that.”

“Well, Cykling just locked me in a barn for four days till my father got me. They even gave me a bowl of gruel each day.”

Geralt stops himself from shoving his face into his hand, but only barely. “Okay, fine.” 

The mask morphs into something real. 

“We’ll head to the North-East, as it thaws there monster contracts increase. As soon as we get somewhere that’s reasonable, I’m leaving you.”

Back to the mask. Whatever. Jaskier will soon see that the Path is no place for an omega. 

* * *

Jaskier is… happy. 

It’s disconcerting. 

The blasé way he’s talked about what basically amounts to torture probably should’ve prepared him, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone so… bubbly. He’s constantly making noise, humming and singing and tapping his feet in weird little half-dances - and it’s annoying, it really is, but Geralt can’t bring himself to make him stop. 

He darts off into fields and grabs up wildflowers (he tries to weave them into Roach’s hair once, and only once. Geralt takes absolutely no amusement in the way he stumbles back at her nip, squawking indignantly) making little bouquets and flower crowns. 

Geralt steadfastly refuses the flower crown he’s offered, and will not be swayed by any amount of pouting. Even if it is surprisingly effective pouting. Jaskier may have been a puppy in a past life. 

He’s entertaining himself by kicking a rock, watching it skitter off, then running up to kick it again when it all just… stops. There’s really no other way to put it: one moment he’s humming and chasing after the stone, the next he’s dead silent and making his way to Roach’s side, walking as close as she’ll let him.

Even his posture has changed, from open and happy to a sad, slumped-shoulder thing that better fits the trauma victim Geralt knows him to be.

Despite his wishes, he’s perturbed by the change. 

After a moment of this, his patience is running thin, and he’s fighting the urge to question Jaskier when figures appear in the distance. 

That’s… suspicious?

There’s no way Jaskier could’ve sensed them before him, but as they get closer he curls further and further into himself, so it’s only logical they’re the reason for his abrupt shift in behavior. 

There’s five of them, two on horseback, and they slow down as they get closer.

Great. 

They come to a complete stop in front of them, grinning in a way that promises absolutely nothing good for anyone. 

“Ay, witcher, how’d a brute like you get yourself an omega?”

“Move,” he says. 

“Surly, eh?” says a different one. “Don’t worry, we don’t want no trouble, jus’ got a proposition for ya’.”

A brush against his calf has him looking down at Jaskier, whose hand has come up to hover over his leg. If he’d thought he looked like a puppy before, he now looks like a fucking abused one, all wide panicked eyes and a trembling lower lip. 

Despite his best intentions, something beneath his breastbone aches. 

He turns back to the men and hums, shifting Roach so they’re between them - alphas, at least two of them, from how it stinks - and Jaskier. 

“We haven’t seen an omega in a long time, ya’ see. Too long, honestly. We have a fair bit of coin for you if you’d give us an hour with him.”

Jaskier’s hand is firmly gripping his calf now, squeezing so hard it might’ve even hurt a normal man. “No,” he says. 

“You wouldn’t be sayin’ that if ya’ knew how much we’re offering, I trust ya’ it’s more than enough.”

“I said no.”

“We won’t be doing anything too bad, don’t worry - nothing that hasn’t been done to ‘im before, anyway.”

Jaskier’s hand spasms on his calf. He has no idea if the man means for that sentence to be comforting, but knowing what Jaskier has been through, it’s categorically not. 

“I suggest you move,” he tells them, making sure his tone conveys that it’s more than a ‘suggestion’.

“Oh, don’t tell me!” the first one says, laughter in his voice. “Did you go and get attached to him? I’ve heard of that before, people thinking their omega is special, more than just a little slut that would take the cock of any alpha the second they go into heat.” His good humor stops abruptly. “Trust me when I say that little whore has no loyalty to you, and you shouldn’t be wasting your time trying to protect him.”

“You’re testing my patience.”

“We could just take him by force, y’know. Five of us, one of you.” None of his lackeys speak up, trading glances that show they at least have more common sense than their leader. An army against a witcher might be fair odds. Five men? It would be a massacre. 

“This isn’t worth it,” one of them says, one who’s been quiet up till now. “Bitch isn’t even that cute.” He starts striding down the path, wise enough to stay on the other side of Geralt from Jaskier. 

Geralt fixes the remaining men with a glower, which sends another two following their friend. The leader’s eyes follow them with a disgusted look, but he gives in, the last man trailing him. 

As he passes by, he says, low, “That whore doesn’t deserve the protection you’re providing him. Betcha’ if he was alone out here he’d be on his back for us in seconds.”

Jaskier’s hand is tight on him. When he looks down, he’s leaning into Roach, who’s letting him for reasons that escape Geralt. His face is tucked into the space between Geralt’s leg and her side, but he can’t smell tears. Still, he waits, giving him whatever time he needs to compose himself. 

Eventually he lifts his head and meets Geralt’s gaze with eyes that have gone steely. 

“How’d you know they were coming?” he asks without meaning to, which is jarring. He never does anything without meaning to. 

All the more reason to drop Jaskier off somewhere and forget this whole mess.

Jaskier cocks his head at him, the silence from him a stark contrast to earlier. As annoying as his constant noise was, this solemness is… disconcerting. 

“I’m a witcher. My senses are enhanced, and you knew they were there before me,” he clarifies, hoping that he’s hiding the fact that this is freaking him the fuck out. He’d thought he had… centuries, maybe, before he started to lose his touch. 

Jaskier smiles ruefully. “I’m very attuned to the smell of alpha, especially on the road.” He doesn’t break eye contact as he continues, “As bad as getting into a town and realizing I’m nothing but a whore there as well is, running into alphas where there’s no one to keep them in check… well. It’s a mistake I take great pains to not repeat.”

He looks away, and seems like he’s trying very hard to sound cheery when he continues, “And I’d assume omegas smell alphas easier anyway! Biology and all that.”

Hm. It’s true he could pick omegas out easier than alphas, so maybe it works the other way as well. Still, by all rights he should’ve been able to smell them before Jaskier. 

He stares at him a moment longer before continuing on, Jaskier’s hand falling back to his side. Jaskier doesn’t return to his… (frolicking, his mind helpfully supplies, which he forcefully rejects and attempts to scrub from his vocabulary) childishness, instead walking sedately by Roach. 

After a few moments, he asks, “So, in the right circumstances, would you?” He doesn’t look at Geralt, instead gazing into the forest they’re walking alongside. 

When it’s clear there’s no clarification forthcoming, Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier looks up at him from under his lashes. “Loan me out, I mean,” he clarifies. “If they paid enough, or we weren’t in the middle of the woods and there was no hurry, would you - I mean, I know that it’s your choice, I just want to be prepared for the inevitability, you see, I understand-”

“Stop,” Geralt says, resisting the urge to rub at his temples. “You’re not mine to loan out.”

He’s faced fully then, Jaskier’s eyes suspicious and maybe the tiniest bit sad. 

Geralt resolutely stares forward. 

“I’m not sure if you’re willfully ignorant or just ignorant,” Jaskier says, trying for… some kind of tone, certainly. Geralt doesn’t think he makes it, because his voice is shaking, just a little. So quietly he doubts an ordinary human would’ve heard it. 

He grunts. 

“I _am_ yours. I was your reward for killing whatever the fuck had been in that graveyard, and you’re doing both of us a disservice by denying it - you can’t just decide I don’t belong to you because it doesn’t fit in with whatever image you have of yourself. You prove it everytime you talk about dumping me somewhere.”

“I don’t own you, I’m just offering protection until we get somewhere you'll be safe.”

Jaskier huffs petulantly. “If you don’t own me, who does? Omegas are property, and if no one owns me it’s first-come first-served, which trust me, is far worse than some grumpy witcher staking his claim.” 

“Jaskier,” he sighs, suddenly very tired. “Shut up.”

He’s gaped at for a long moment before Jaskier’s off again. “Oh, no no no, you don’t get to just grumpily ignore this because you can’t be bothered. You brought this upon yourself when you said ‘I’ll take him’,” Geralt rolls his eyes at the piss-poor imitation of his voice. “You own me, you can loan me out, so I ask again: if you needed the coin, would you?”

“No, Jaskier. I’m not going to loan you out. I thought that would be obvious when I said _I don’t own you_.”

Jaskier blows his hair out of his face in a way that strongly suggests there is pouting going on. Geralt doesn’t deign to look at him, because even the best pouts are ineffective if they’re unseen. 

Jaskier doesn’t go back to his antics, and Geralt can’t seem to find a way to ask him to - not that he _wants_ him to, but there’s a distinct… lack, now. Like Jaskier should be loud, no matter how annoying it is, because the absence he leaves when he’s quiet is even more annoying. 

God, silence is never a problem when he’s alone. 

He really has to get rid of him. 

* * *

He expects Jaskier to start complaining as soon as it becomes obvious they’re camping outside for the night, which is entirely not what happens. 

Instead, he follows all of Geralt's directions promptly and silently, which is… good. Very good. It’s nice to be listened to, and setting up camp goes faster than it otherwise would. When two rabbits are roasting, Roach is happily grazing, and they've replenished their water, Geralt lets himself have a long moment of self-deprecation. 

Of course Jaskier wouldn’t complain about sleeping outside: he’s apparently walked for days to get out of that shithole village, and it’s not like he has the coin to shack up in inns. Geralt, stupid short-sighted Geralt, had been comparing him to the kept omegas he’s met in courts. 

Everything about Jaskier makes him stupid. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he was so wrong-footed. 

Scowling, he hands Jaskier a cooked rabbit, turning away to tear into his own. There’s no seasoning, but Jaskier doesn’t complain then, either. 

In fact, when Geralt turns back to him, he’s looking positively blissed out. It makes something uncomfortably warm settle in Geralt - probably indigestion. 

His eyes rake over Jaskier’s small frame, the bones creating sharp edges where they jut out from paper thin skin, and he shoves the rest of the rabbit in his mouth sloppily before heading back into the woods. 

He returns with two more rabbits, skinning them and sticking them over the fire swiftly.

Once they’re cooked, he gives one to Jaskier, who blinks between him and the meat warily.

Jaskier takes the rabbit. 

When he’s done with it, Geralt grumbles something he thinks can be vaguely understood as ‘I’m full’ and shoves the other rabbit at Jaskier. 

“Uh, are you sure?” Jaskier asks. 

He glares and shoves the rabbit more forcefully in his direction. 

It’s taken tentatively, but it is taken, and then eaten in short order. 

Geralt’s indigestion is getting worse, but he finds he doesn’t mind all that much. 

Then, as he surveys the camp, he finds something he does mind all that much. 

He’d forgotten to get Jaskier a bedroll. 

Fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao as you can see don't expect fast updates
> 
> But do expect them! 
> 
> I have endless appreciation for all the comments and kudos I receive, you are all wonderful!! So glad my first witcher story was received well. I have some other plot bunnies hibernating, so be on the lookout if you enjoy my writing style. 
> 
> Please point out any mistakes! I'm open to constructive criticism
> 
> All town names are made up cause I didn't want to sully the actual towns in the witcher. I.. had some fun with what I should name them. 
> 
> also, am I jumping headlong into tropes? HELL TO THE FUCK YES. IT'S MY QUARANTINE AND I CAN WRITE SELF-INDULGENT FIC IF I WANT
> 
> I hope you're all taking care of yourselves in this crazy world, be safe, be kind, do what you can and forgive yourself for what you cannot
> 
> (chapter title is again from Glass Animals, "Melon and the Coconut")


	3. Really Think That Metal Gonna Make You Safe?

He resolves to not think about it for as long as possible. After all, he still has to lay out the bedroll… which takes all of two seconds. _Fuck_. 

Geralt stares at Jaskier, still nibbling on the last of the rabbit meat. 

Then Geralt stares at the singular bedroll. 

Then Geralt stares at Jaskier again. 

And, look: it was never really a choice, but he likes to pretend it was. He settles in for a sleepless night, kneeling between the bedroll and the forest.

A long moment passes. Jaskier stops chewing. Geralt breathes, breathes, breat-

“Are you, like, praying to the bedroll?”

He does not have the energy to deign that with anything more than one half-opened eye.

“Ooh, scary face,” Jaskier drawls, sounding very un-scared. “What is it then? A nightly ritual? Do you just think about the bedroll instead of sleeping in it?”

“Jaskier,” he growls. It’s irritating that he doesn’t do so much as flinch back. “That’s your bedroll.”

There’s silence for one, blessed moment. 

“Well then, where’s yours?”

Geralt growls again, deep and low. Jaskier… doesn’t seem impressed. Or intimidated. Or any of the other things he most definitely should be. 

Instead, he just stares. 

Geralt resists the urge to growl once more. “There’s only one,” he explains. It sort of comes out as a growl anyway. 

Oh well. 

Jaskier blinks at him. Blinks at the bedroll. Back at him.

“You know I’m quite accustomed to sleeping on the ground, yes?” he asks. Before Geralt can respond, he continues, “I didn’t just stay awake for five whole days when I was trying to escape.”

Geralt does not growl again. Really. There is a low rumble, but it is no way a growl, just an expression of how displeased he is. 

“This is your bedroll. I don’t need to sleep.”

This time, Jaskier keeps blinking at him. “You don’t need to sleep?” he says, in the same way one might say ‘glittery ale?’ or ‘neon blood?’.

As in, he thinks it’s preposterous. 

“I’m a witcher,” he says. 

“Yes,” Jaskier replies, now in the tone of voice you use when speaking to a very small child. “I know that. You’ve said that. I’ve named you.”

Which, well. Yes. 

“Witchers don’t need to sleep.”

Jaskier blinks. Looks around, like answers might be floating in the air. “Ever?”

“No. Just not as much.”

“Y’know, you can say these things as full sentences. ‘I don’t need to sleep as much as you’ is much more informative than ’I don’t need to sleep’, which is also wrong, while we're on the topic, because yes you do.”

Geralt says, “Hm.”

“You do realize I’ve slept butt ass naked in these woods, right?”

“You shouldn’t have. People get killed like that.”

Jaskier shoots him a look, and he knows whatever is going to come out of him next is something he won’t like. 

“Like I wouldn’t have been killed eventually by my dad, drunk out of his mind.”

Annnnddd Geralt was right. He only ever seems to be when he really, really doesn’t want to be. 

Maybe that says something. 

He stays quiet. Jaskier looks at him. He looks at the bedroll. 

He says, “We can share.”

Geralt, caught entirely off guard, says, “Hm.”

“I mean, you want me to take it. Whatever.” Jaskier shrugs, but it’s the sort of shrug where you don’t want anyone to know that you actually do give a fuck. “And I’m not going to take it, because I - well, I -” he falters. Looks at him, looks away. Geralt waits. 

“I - I _need_ you.” His voice breaks more than it ever has before. “I can’t go back to - you are my only - Geralt,” he finishes, saying quite a lot without really saying anything. 

Geralt looks at him. He’s… young. Not strong. Gangly. Underfed. He won’t keep him, but he does need somewhere safe. Somewhere omegas are prized without being chained, somewhere he can live his life however he wants. 

Somewhere someone will take care of him. 

That someone isn’t Geralt. He won’t say that he’s given up on finding an omega because he’d gone through the trials before he’d even known it was an option. You don’t give up things you’ve never had.

He’d never want something so fragile tagging along after him anyway. He doesn’t want an omega. He would’ve wanted one, would've been a proper alpha, but now he’s a witcher. Things change.

(But the way Jaskier looks at him - his eyes, they’re so blue and he _trusts_ him - he smells like citrus, right before it’s bad, sweet and ripe. Maybe a bit of cinnamon; saffron; cardamom; spices and candy and everything else a Witcher doesn’t need, can't afford to want). 

Jaskier does not _need_ Geralt. If he does, he’s truly as fucked up as they come, and Geralt will not subject himself to that. 

And yet. 

Jaskier takes the bedroll. It takes cajoling. It takes maneuvering. It takes outright force.

(Not much force - he’s not a monster, despite what the general populace says. Just a guiding hand on his shoulder, gentle but insistent.)

And yet.

Jaskier jerks himself awake, and it shouldn’t be surprising but it is, and then he’s off into the woods in a split second.

(Because of Geralt, because he can smell the alpha in the air and it’s his fault but he didn’t _want_ it, he would have been a beta given the choice.

He knows chasing isn’t what he should be doing but these woods are dangerous and Jaskier -

Jaskier).

He catches him. 

(Of course he catches him. He can see in the dark. Running, he beats the fastest humans in moments.

Of _course_ he catches him [but what if something else caught him first?])

“Jaskier,” he says. Maybe growls. It matters sometimes. He’s not good at deciphering the right times. 

Of all things, the body in his arms goes limp. 

There’s a careful reply, “Geralt?”

And, again without thinking, he says, “Yes.”

Immediately Jaskier relaxes (it’s different from going limp in ways Geralt doesn’t have the words to describe). “You,” he says, but that doesn’t make any sense. There’s a moment. Jaskier doesn't move; Geralt doesn’t drop him. He stays there, swaying. 

After a moment, Geralt replies, “Me. Geralt.” Because it seems they’ve reverted to troll speak. 

“You smell like alpha.”

Geralt flinches. It shouldn’t hurt - not after everything. He’s technically an alpha, of course he smells like alpha. But he still flinches.

“You don’t-” Jaskier continues after a second, “you don’t smell bad. You just smell like alpha. Most alphas smell bad. Not you.”

Geralt doesn’t reply. There’s nothing to say. 

Jaskier sighs. “I don’t… I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

“Waking up to alpha scent in the forest has never worked out well for me before.”

“That’s their fault. Not yours.”

Silence. Jaskier calms, slowly, slumping against Geralt. He doesn’t remember the last time someone has curled into him like this. Seeking warmth. Seeking protection. 

It cannot be allowed to continue. Jaskier cannot be allowed to grow fond of him. 

(He cannot be allowed to grow fond of Jaskier.)

“Are you alright to walk back?”

And Jaskier, in utter defiance of all his inner thoughts, tries to curl closer to him. He doesn’t succeed, because he’s already as close as one can get to another, but the gesture is… painful.

Shockingly sweet and bitterly painful. 

Geralt has no idea how his life has gone so wrong so fast. 

This isn’t a payment, it’s a punishment. 

“You’ll feel better warm, by the fire.”

Jaskier huffs against him. “‘M warm right here.”

“Jaskier.”

He sighs. “I don’t know - I wasn’t ready to, um, sprint like that. My legs are… shaky.”

Geralt can read between the lines. ‘I woke up in a blind panic because you smell like the worst type of person,’ isn’t a hard message to get. 

“We can wait,” he says, and sinks them to the ground. Jaskier flops back against Geralt like his strings have been cut, and in the few moments Geralt is panicking about how to dislodge him, his breathing evens out. Fuck. 

He glances around the dark forest. Their campfire is a dim spot in the distance, even with his superior night-vision. This is not a place to spend the night. 

“Jaskier,” he says. Gentle is what he goes for, but it lands somewhere around ‘growly’. One of the unexpected consequences of this misadventure is learning he has one tone and while it’s great for scaring random people into doing what he wants, it’s shit at… basically anything else. This may be why Eskel is more well-liked than him. 

Huffing, he surveys the area again. It’s not somewhere he’d ever pick to set up camp - the brush is too high to safely build a fire by, the ground is uneven, and the sharp scent of crushed pine needles make it that much harder to sniff out danger. 

They can’t stay here. 

“Jaskier,” he tries again. Jaskier stirs a bit. Promising. “Jaskier,” he says, louder. 

“Hmm,” Jaskier grumbles. 

“We have to go back to camp.”

More incoherent grumbling. 

“Jaskier,” he says, again, at a loss for what else to say. 

“I don’t think I can walk all the way back.” Jaskier shifts, suddenly seeming much more awake. “My legs haven’t really stopped shaking.” He glares down at them. “In fact, I think they’re shaking more.”

“I can leave-”

“No!” Jaskier blinks at him like he’s as surprised at the outburst as Geralt is. “It’s not you. I’m just…”

Malnourished? Basically emaciated? The subject of who-knows-what abuse?

“...Not used to that kind of exercise,” he finishes, looking away. 

“I’ll carry you.”

Jaskier eyes him skeptically, but shrugs. “Nothing else for it, I suppose. I can make it if you just give me a shoulder to lean on, though.” He says it like he’s not still curled in Geralt’s arms, like he hadn’t been trying to burrow under his skin. 

He shrugs and dislodges him. No use pointing it out. Jaskier takes his offered hand and he hoists up what seems like all his weight.

It is not, honestly, that much weight. He’s depressingly easy to haul back to camp, even as his legs prove to be more dead weight than anything else. 

He flops onto the bedroll like a fawn that’s never held up its own body before, and Geralt feels a twinge of what’s almost certainly pity. 

“Join me,” he says, glaring up at him like he hadn’t just fallen bonelessly onto the ground. 

“...What.”

Jaskier waves impatiently at the space he’s wiggling around to make. “I won’t wake up so spooked if you aren’t looming over me like that. Waking up _with_ alphas, as strange as it sounds, is generally the better option if the other one is waking up to them staring down at you.”

Geralt sputters out the first thing that comes to mind: “I wasn’t staring!” He blinks, coming back to himself - he _never_ has outbursts like that - it wasn’t even a growl! Blinking more, he _does not_ gape down at Jaskier, who he’s starting to realize is really, really bad news. 

Jaskier arches an eyebrow at him. 

_Really, really_ bad news. 

The shock is the only reason he lies down. It’s also the only reason he lets Jaskier snuggle (since when did he even know the word ‘snuggle’!?) against his back. He lies completely, utterly frozen as Jaskier mumbles something that may be a highly slurred 'warm' against him, and doesn't unfreeze even as Jaskier more or less melts against him.

He stays awake staring at nothing for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here here for slow updates
> 
> Nah life is crazy
> 
> Feel free to point out errors/give constructive criticism!
> 
> If you're doing online school I feel for you, I really do. I have been trying to do online school, strong emphasis on 'trying' 
> 
> oh god help me 
> 
> I'm not super happy with this chapter but honestly this fic is so self-indulgent I don't think it really matters 
> 
> Geralt: experiences feelings, companionship, and someone who isn't afraid of him (and wants to SnUGglE???)
> 
> Geralt: whAT THE FUCK IS THAT, GET IT AWAY


	4. Can't Make You Happier Now

Somehow, he falls asleep. This proves to be a mistake, because he wakes up with his arm slung around Jaskier’s waist and blue eyes staring up at him with insufferable smugness. Instead of flailing away, which is his first impulse, he blinks slowly. 

At least he hasn’t _entirely_ lost his self-control. 

He mechanically lifts his arm and shoves Jaskier back (gently - for him, anyway), turning away before the pout that’s undoubtedly coming can reach him.

Absently, he packs up camp. He has to find somewhere to leave Jaskier, and soon, that much is obvious. Was he truthful when he said he’s been to every village within a five days walk? He could have Jaskier ride with him, but then Roach would tire out and they might end up making worse time, in the end. 

He dismisses the idea of Jaskier riding Roach alone practically immediately. Roach would buck him off in a second, or he’d fall off, or _something_ unfortunate would happen, and while his main priority is having Jaskier _gone_ , he doesn’t want him _dead_. 

“So where are we off to now, dear Witcher?”

Geralt’s brain screeches to a halt at ‘dear Witcher’. He doesn’t think he’s ever been called that unless as a taunt, and even then nothing is coming to mind. Much to his chagrin, he’s stuck staring at Jaskier while his brain reboots. 

Jaskier notices. 

Of course he does. 

Suddenly there’s an excited omega in his space, closer than anyone gets willingly, staring right into his eyes. “I _thought_ they were kitty-eyes!” he crows. Geralt is still stuck on ‘dear Witcher’, so his brain lets those words slide off it to prevent complete mental shutdown. 

It barely helps. 

“Can you do that on purpose? Holy shit that’s so cool. Is it hard to read? I think that would make it hard to read.”

Geralt blinks.

 _Dear witcher_. 

“You can see in the dark, can’t you? Do all witchers have golden eyes? I bet there’s some with, like, green eyes. Or maybe you don’t all have cat eyes - did you know goats have rectangular pupils? Would that be any good?”

Geralt’s brain eventually catches up, mostly by blaming ‘dear witcher’ on temporary insanity and unceremoniously dumping it in the trash. “What the fuck are you talking about?” is what he chooses to say once he’s regained control of his voice. 

“Your eyes!” Jaskier beams. “They did the thing! The kitty thing.”

“The… kitty thing.”

“Yeah! Y’know, when cat's eyes go _fwooom_!” He makes some kind of indecipherable motion with his hands, changing them from curled lines to circles. Geralt stares uncomprehendingly. “When cats see something and they need a better look, their eyes,” Jaskier continues, like he’s going to start making more sense the more he talks. From what little Geralt knows of Jaskier, this is a futile endeavor. “They get all circular! Yours did that! What did you see?”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that. “Cats don’t like me,” is what he settles on. It’s not an answer to any of Jaskier’s onslaught, but it is true, and coherent, to boot. After a second, some of what Jaskier said filters in. “Goat eyes?”

“They’re rectangular,” Jaskier confirms. 

“There's no witchers with goat eyes.”

“Huh,” he says, studying Geralt’s face with an intensity that unnerves him. “I think I like kitty eyes better anyway.”

Geralt wishes there was anyone, literally _anyone_ he could drop Jaskier with and trust that he’d be safe. He has no idea what is happening but he does not like it. 

(Goat eyes???)

Once camp is packed up, he swings up onto Roach and they’re off. He stares straight ahead and doesn’t so much as glance down, because if he can’t see Jaskier, that means he’s not there. 

Except for the humming. 

The humming that turns into quiet singing. 

That then turns into not-so-quiet singing. 

He’s too relieved when it stops to be concerned. It takes a moment for him to realize that Jaskier’s soft footsteps have ceased as well, and by the time he looks back Jaskier is sprawled out on the ground, legs twisted awkwardly. 

He sees Geralt looking at him immediately and waves. “Haha, don’t mind me, I’ll catch up!”

Geralt blinks. He’ll admit, somewhere in him, he wants to just keep going: Jaskier said he’ll catch up, after all, it’s hardly his fault if he leaves him. 

He turns Roach around and they trot back, to Jaskier’s increasingly anxious hand-waving. “Jaskier,” he says, hoping it will be enough to prompt an explanation. 

“Sorry, sorry, don’t let me inconvenience you - I really will catch up, I just need a moment.” He twists in an attempt to move to a more reasonable sitting position and then winces, remaining where he is. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, “can you stand?”

“Yes!”

“Stand.”

Jaskier glares at him. He manually lifts his legs so they’re in front of him, then tips his weight forward… 

And almost falls flat on his face. 

Geralt gets off Roach with a huff, despite Jaskier’s protests that he just needs a moment. He scoops him up unceremoniously, but makes sure he’s comfortable, which must count for something. 

“What are you doing? I’m fine, I’m not - I’m not a _burden!_ ”

“You are nothing but a burden,” Geralt growls, then immediately regrets it when Jaskier flinches back. He’s not going to apologize, but he does try to make his voice as soft as possible when he continues, “This is my fault, anyway. You haven’t been treated well, you’re probably malnourished and exhausted, and I’ve been pushing us beyond your limits. I haven’t traveled with a human in a long time. I’ve forgotten how…”

“Weak we are?” he sounds challenging, but he’s curling against Geralt like an oversized cat, so most of the effect is lost. 

“Comparatively? Yes.”

Jaskier huffs a hot breath against his neck, which derails Geralt for a minute, but he rallies and continues on into the forest, looking for a shady place for a break. 

Jaskier is set down in the moss growing between two gnarled tree branches. There’s dappled sunlight illuminating him, making his hair glow and his eyes seem impossibly bright. 

Geralt looks away. “You need to tell me when you need a break - I don’t know these things.”

“And have you leave me behind? Not a chance.”

“Jaskier,” he sighs. “I could’ve left you behind many times by now. I am offering you protection until we get to a reasonable town. I don’t go back on my word. Do not make me by dying from exhaustion before we get there.”

Jaskier huffs and turns away. 

“Are you hungry?” Geralts asks after a moment. Another thing he doesn’t know: how much do humans need to eat? How often? 

Jaskier looks at him like it’s a trap, but says, “Yes,” eventually.

Geralt rummages around in his pack, finding an apple and a bag of almonds. That’s healthy, right? Suitable for getting a human’s strength up? He should probably catch something as well, but it’s midday, most animals will be hunkered down to wait out the heat. 

He brings the apple and nuts over, and Jaskier makes grabby hands for the fruit before seeming to remember himself. “Ah, sorry, I haven’t had fruit in… well, it’s been a long time."

Geralt shoves the apple in his face and he takes it tentatively. “Stay here, if anyone comes, yell. I won’t be far, and Roach will be able to protect you long enough for me to make it back.”

“Roach doesn’t even like me,” Jaskier whines, but Geralt is already darting off into the woods.

Fruit. Fruit. What kind of fruit grows here, this time of year? It’s late summer, so… blackberries. He pauses, listening intently for the telltale burbling of a stream. His efforts are rewarded, and within minutes he’s arrived at a stream so overrun with brambles there’s no trace of water to be seen. 

Using the bottom of his shirt as a makeshift bag, he goes up and down the stream, focusing his hearing every now and again to make sure Jaskier is still fine - an easy task, when he seems incapable of being silent for more than a few minutes. He sings, talks to Roach, talks to himself, and, memorably, starts talking to a bird that has apparently landed by him. 

When Geralt’s shirt is filled up with blackberries, he starts making his way back. Once Jaskier spots him, his face lights up, which is not the normal reaction to his presence, but nothing about Jaskier is normal. 

“Geralt! Why is your shirt like - ack!” The squawk is a direct result of Geralt dumping the entire bounty of his shirt onto Jaskier, having not thought of a better way to present his gift.

Jaskier blinks owlishly at him, which he can’t exactly blame him for. If someone came up to him and dumped the entire contents of their shirt on his sitting form - well, it probably wouldn’t be something as nice as berries, to start with, and he’d probably skin them alive on reflex, to end with. 

Reality seems to catch up to Jaskier, and he looks around him in delight - real, honest delight, which is almost terrifying to look at. How can Jaskier just… emote like that?

“Blackberries! How the hell did you find blackberries?”

Blackberries are actually extremely common this time of year. What the hell did Jaskier eat on his escape missions if he didn’t know how to find _blackberries_? 

“They grow around streams in late summer.”

“Well I wish I’d known that before!” he says, popping one into his mouth. The next one, he holds out to Geralt, who gets the lovely intrusive thought of him biting it out of Jaskier’s fingers, maybe licking up some of the juice trailing down his wrist.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. 

He plucks the berry from Jaskier (with his fingers, thank you very much) and goes to silently curse himself out somewhere Jaskier won’t think he’s having a conniption. 

His stupid refusal to acknowledge Jaskier means they’re farther behind than they could’ve been; who knows how long Jaskier will need to rest. Fuck. There needs to be a book ‘How to Take Care of Your Human’.

Not that Jaskier is _his_ human, just his responsibility for the time being. 

Jaskier is still munching happily on the blackberries when he’s got it out of his system. There’s juice all over his hands, dribbling down his arms, and as he watches Jaskier (mostly ineffectually) starts to lick up some stray drops. 

Geralt stares. 

He’s just about to sneak away to continue suffering in peace when Jaskier spots him. “Geralt!” he smiles so widely it must hurt. “I saved some for you.” He presents a heaping pile of blackberries, and Geralt can do nothing but make his way towards him and take the proffered berries.

They’re good, honestly - really good. Tart and sweet - and really, really juicy. The mess Jaskier made suddenly makes a lot more sense. 

Once he’s finished, keeping himself much cleaner than Jaskier, he turns towards the other man and prepares to do one of his least favorite activities: talk. “You collapsed,” he says.

Jaskier blinks at him. “I believe we’ve established this? You were there, if I recall correctly.”

“Were you just exhausted? Hungry? Or is there something else I need to know.”

“I’m fine!” Jaskier says, far too fast. Geralt glares at him. “Really, completely fine, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“Jaskier.”

“Fine, yes, my delicate little omega feet hurt - these boots are absolutely not my size, and I thought two pairs of socks would fix that but it’s made it worse, if anything.”

“You’re not delicate,” he growls as he begins undoing the laces of the boots, tugging one off, then the other. Immediately, he can tell something is wrong, the faint scent of blood wafting up to his nose. It only gets stronger as he pulls the outermost socks off, and the pair below that sticks to Jaskier’s feet. 

Not a good sign. 

Jaskier hisses as Geralt pulls them off - he means to be gentle, he really does, but you can only be so gentle when you’re removing cloth stuck to someone with their own dried blood. “Goddammit Jaskier,” he hisses, staring at the mangled mess of blisters and bleeding cracks on his feet. 

“It’s fine!” Jaskier yelps, struggling to pull his feet back to him. A hand on each ankle stops him easily, and it only takes a gentle tug to have Jaskier resting both his feet in Geralt’s lap. They’re bleeding sluggishly: not enough to worry about blood loss, but certainly enough to be worried about infection. 

“You should’ve told me,” he says, fixing Jaskier with a stare he hopes is as disapproving as he feels. 

“I can’t be a bur-”

“Yes, yes, a burden. You’ve said. Did you ever consider you’re more of a burden now? There is no way you can walk on these and if we don’t properly treat them, they’ll almost certainly get infected.”

Jaskier turns away, blowing a wisp of hair from his face. “I should’ve just gone barefoot.”

Geralt absently rubs circles on his ankle, then stops abruptly when he realizes what he was doing. “Maybe,” he allows. “Doesn’t matter now, stay here while I get salve.”

Fuck Jaskier going barefoot, Geralt should’ve been paying attention.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’s stupid when he pays attention to Jaskier and he’s stupid when he doesn’t, and now their travel time is going to be even worse than he’d thought. 

He goes ahead and gives into the urge to bonk his head against Roach. Good girl that she is, he only gets a huffy _neigh_ in protest. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER CHAPTER?? SO SOON??
> 
> Ya'll can thank my good friend ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Procrastination *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> No seriously the semester is coming to an end and these are the worst grades I've had my ENTIRE LIFE
> 
> So instead of trying to fix that I've been watching livestreams and churning out fics like my life depends on it. It's called self-care <3
> 
> And drinking coffee. I had an entire pot today. I tried to hold a conversation and managed to change topics about four times in thirty seconds before giving up. 
> 
> ANYWAY I thrive on comments and kudos! They're much appreciated and cherished. Constructive criticism is also welcome!!
> 
> (You've all been supremely lovely btw, and I hope you're all doing as well as you can give the circumstances. I know I'm joking about it but self-care really is important!
> 
> Do what you can with what you have, and forgive yourself for everything else
> 
> I hope this fic can bring some joy to you all
> 
> Much love <3
> 
> [also blackberry picking is one of my favorite summer activities: it's just so facking wholesome. Give it a try next summer if you're somewhere blackberries grow - you can make pies n jams n wine and all sorts of goodies that make great gifts!])


	5. And Then We're Back To Real Life

He gets all the supplies he has for wound treatment that he’s  _ sure _ are non-toxic for humans. There’s a couple he’s a bit unsure of, but it’s really not worth the risk, so he leaves those tucked away.

Jaskier smiles at him when he turns back, which is not something he’s  _ getting used to _ , because that would be ridiculous, but it’s no longer making him want to run off and find something to fight.

He's not sure if it's an improvement.

Jaskier lets Geralt tug his feet back into his lap without protest. Getting a cloth damp, he starts in on gently washing away the dried blood, revealing feet that were, while certainly not fine, not as bad as they’d originally looked. 

Jaskier is surprisingly docile, only squirming a few times with petulant mumbles of ‘tickles’ and near-silent giggles. 

Geralt uncaps the salve and warns, “This will probably sting, but you’ll heal much faster.”

He gets a nod in return, so he dips his fingers into the sticky paste and starts applying it. Jaskier stays very still, only murmuring, “It’s sort of minty,” quietly, like there’s something here he’s afraid to spook. Geralt hopes it’s not him. 

Finally, bandages. 

He wraps Jaskier’s feet easily - he’s had lots and  _ lots _ of practice. Again, Jaskier is still, and now he’s completely silent. When Geralt’s done, he flexes his feet, testing the give. “We’ll have to change those daily,” Geralt says. “You should be healed fairly quickly, though.”

Jaskier hums and tucks his feet up, almost as if - “You can’t  _ walk _ , do you want to make it  _ worse _ ?” he yells and immediately regrets his tone as Jaskier’s face falls. 

“How the hell are we supposed to go anywhere then?” he snaps back, which makes Geralt feel marginally better. 

He looks up at the sun: it’s still high, but the next town isn’t for a while. 

“We’ll stay here for the rest of the day,” he decides. “Wouldn’t make it to a town until nightfall anyway, and if they decided our coin was no good we’d be shit out of luck.”

“Why would they decide your coin is no good?”

Geralt blinks at Jaskier like he might be joking, but his expression shows no hint of teasing. “Coin from a mutant is worth less - we’re bad for business.”

Jaskier huffs for a second, looking both confused and outraged, which is really not what he was expecting. “Coin is coin, and if anything you should be good for business! It’s not like the townspeople will have to worry about any monsters eating their entrails if you’re around!”

Geralt almost smiles, but catches himself. “Witchers are barely better than the monsters we kill.”

“What?” Jaskier near-shouts. Thankfully, he quiets down to an acceptable level before he continues, “You’re better than most men I’ve met! How the hell would anyone think of you as anything but a fucking hero?”

“Jaskier,” he says, then pauses, because he has no idea how he’s supposed to continue that sentence. 

It seems he doesn’t need to, because Jaskier is off on a rant, “Sure, you could stand to bathe more often, and your responses tend heavily towards the ‘gruff and grumpy’ end of the spectrum, and you death-glare whenever anyone so much as glances your way-”

“Jaskier,” he says again, because while this is honest, it’s certainly not making him feel any better.

That is still not enough to stop Jaskier, though Geralt is starting to think ‘stopping Jaskier’ is akin to wargs flying. Probably not impossible, but damn near so. 

“But you’ve shown me more compassion than  _ anyone _ else! I know I’m not a ‘reward’ for whatever the fuck it was that you killed, you’ve made it perfectly obvious that I’m an annoying burden you’re duty-bound to take care of, but you’ve actually taken care of me! You aren’t loaning me out for coin - which my own fucking father did - you didn’t just drop me in the forest and say ‘good luck’, you _brought me berries_ just because I said I hadn’t had fruit in forever, you’ve-”

“Jaskier!” he yells, because this is actually worse than Jaskier explaining his many, many failings. 

He quiets and stares at Geralt. Geralt stares back. He is no closer to having any way to end that exclamation than he has been for this whole, horrible conversation. 

Jaskier, as usual, picks up the slack. “Your eyes,” he murmurs, “they’re doing the kitty thing again.”

Considering Geralt is approximately two seconds away from hissing, that seems about right.

* * *

Geralt beats a hasty retreat after… all that, with a half-mumbled explanation that he’s pretty sure had the word ‘snares’ somewhere in it. He makes sure to stay close enough that he can hear if anything goes wrong - because things always seem to go wrong - but he goes farther than he really needs to, so that Jaskier has no chance of seeing him… have a breakdown, if he’s being honest with himself. 

He isn’t, always. 

Honest with himself, that is. 

He’s starting to think he  _ really _ hasn’t been honest with himself where Jaskier is concerned.

If he knew _ how _ to be honest with himself in this, that would be helpful. Jaskier stirs up emotions he hasn’t felt in  _ decades _ \- he’s not even sure what they  _ are _ , and he doesn’t like not knowing. 

He sighs and accepts that he’s just going to have to stumble blindly through this until he finds a decent town to dump Jaskier in. It’s really the only option. He’s certainly been through worse. Probably. Laying in a swamp for hours waiting to die or heal enough he can drag himself to the rest of his potions counts as ‘worse’, right?

Probably.

He does, eventually, get around to setting up snares. Hopefully they’ll catch something and he won’t have to go wandering around hunting rabbits tonight.

Though maybe he should do that whether or not they catch anything. The more time spent away from Jaskier, the better. 

When he finally convinces himself to go back, Jaskier is humming to himself and fidgeting with a piece of… something non-lethal. He’s almost certain. It’s not from his bags and he doesn’t look like he’s going to eat it, so it should be fine. 

They pass the day, somehow. He mends his armor and cares for Roach, checks his potions and hunts for herbs. 

Jaskier does… something. Probably.

Mostly hums, except Geralt doesn’t notice that until far after he should, because it’s… not bad. 

When it’s time to check the snares, he’s caught two rabbits - and, look. He knows it’s a bad idea, and it goes against everything he’s trying to do, but Jaskier had been so happy with the blackberries earlier, and he knows there’s rosemary and thyme nearby - he can smell them. 

He also passed by some wild onions on his way and carrots grow around here. There’s even a little bit of salt in his packs. 

And he’s rambling. 

It’s a stupid, shitty idea, but Jaskier will never know he collected all this for him, specifically. 

Geralt would be fine eating the rabbit raw, if he so desired.

(Which he doesn’t, to make the point clear, but when you’re too exhausted to cook, you do what you can.)

Plus, he reasons with himself, this will keep him away from camp, and therefore Jaskier, for much longer.

Also, humans need vegetables. He thinks. 

So he spends twice the time he otherwise would stomping through underbrush and digging up fucking roots of all things so that he can make his unwanted companion a rabbit stew, instead of cooked rabbit on a stick. 

The blackberries he brings back as well are half for Roach, so that’s justifiable. 

He goes about cooking it and hopes desperately Jaskier will not comment.

To his credit, he had known better: that’s why it was a desperate hope. “Wow, that smells good!” Geralt grunts at him. This urges him on, for some reason - he has a suspicion that the reason involves Jaskier having the ability and will to talk to a particularly friendly fence post. 

“How’d you find all this?” he questions, crawling closer. 

“Foraged.”

“Oh, wow!" He pauses for a moment, uncharacteristically indecisive. "Could you teach me?”

That brings Geralt up short, and he stops his stirring, turning to blink at Jaskier. “You want to learn to forage?”

He shrugs. “Certainly would’ve made escaping easier.”

Well. That’s undeniable. 

“Plus, it means I can be useful to you!”

That, on the other hand, is certainly deniable. “You don’t need to be useful to me, you need to be useful to a town somehow.”

“Geralt,” he says, and he’s smiling at him but it’s not a smile, not really. “You know exactly how I’ll be useful to a town.”

“Not all towns are like that.” Jaskier shrugs. “I promise I’ve seen more than you.”

“And I’ve talked to more omegas than you.” The smell in the air lets him know the stew is about to burn, and he goes back to it, stirring. Hopefully that will end the conversation.

Hoping is not working out well for Geralt today, though to be honest it never really did. “If cooking would help more you could teach me that? Or something else? Then you wouldn't have to do it all yourself." The next bit is said resentfully, under his breath in a tone a human wouldn't hear, "'Almost certain my father stopped me from learning anything so I'd have to be a whore forever.”

Geralt stares into the swirling liquid. Of course - of course Jaskier isn’t like that because he’s inherently useless, it’s because stupid, selfish people have stopped him from being anything more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been great, thanks <3
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy this
> 
> Comments and kudos make me v happy
> 
> It's probably not as funny as I think it is but I made a typo where I said 'he knows that carrots grow around him' which could make sense in y'know, context, but I just stared at it and imagined Geralt sitting in a field for a while and carrots start popping up around him
> 
> as always, i take constructive criticism and appreciate when people point out typos


End file.
